


i want to see you (on your knees)

by winterbones



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Jonerys Week, i will never not make this a sex thing sorry, in which many knees are bent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-24
Updated: 2017-09-24
Packaged: 2019-01-05 02:30:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12181146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winterbones/pseuds/winterbones
Summary: jon snow. the night before he does something stupid.(takes place during 5.05 "eastwatch")





	i want to see you (on your knees)

Jon wasn’t sure how long he’d gazed the fire, watching the wood snap and pop, filling his rooms with the thick, cloying smell of smoke and heat. He stared at it, transfixed, by the curling tail of warm oranges and deep reds. He wasn’t even aware of it banking and dying to dull embers until a chill swept through the room, making him shiver. Strange, how quickly he’d adjusted to this Southern weather. Winterfell was much colder, the snowdrifts already piling high against the castle walls, and yet after a few weeks he’d grown used to this dull, moist cold on Dragonstone.

What would it be like? To be north of the Wall after all this time, to feel that lethal, ruthless bite of winter once more, cutting through furs and leathers and drilling straight into his bone.

The memory caused a shiver to work through him and Jon leaned forward in his chair to stir the fire. _Soon, not even the heat of flames will warm me_. He’d never thought he’d go beyond the Wall again. It was a fool’s mission. A suicide mission. He wasn’t likely to come back alive.

For a long time, that’s what he thought he wanted. To die. All he could remember from the space between his first life and his second was darkness. An endless, sapping darkness. A cold, too, but a cold that didn’t chill. It had been almost peaceful, his mind still and silent, and coming back had felt like feeling each heartbreak—father’s death, Robb’s death, Ygritte’s death, _his_ death—every wound in a heartbeat, his body nothing more than a prison for his suffering. _Why am I alive?_ he had thought in the long moments as his heart and lungs tried to remember what it was to work. _I should be dead. I want to be dead._

He’d thought, later, he’d die fighting the Night King and it had almost been a comfort. This one last task and he’d rest. Now—

Daenerys Targaryen did not want him to go. He’d seen it in her eyes, seen through her thin excuse of royal arrogance. She’d been worried for him, scared for him, and she did not want him to go. She did not want him to die.

It gave Jon pause.

 _There’s no time for that_ , he’d told Davos, but he’d been telling himself, too. Reminding himself. He hadn’t come here to make cow eyes at a Dragon Queen. There was war on the horizon, the dead coming to devour the living, and he had to lead his people through the Long Night… and then he could rest.

_But she wants me to live._

Jon knew there were people who’d mourn him—Davos and Sansa, Arya now that he knew she was alive, Bran and even some of the Wildlings—but they’d only been a half thought, a half consideration. He’d wanted that peace and stillness and quiet that had been carved into his heart that way Olly’s knife had. _But Daenerys Targaryen does not want me to die._ If she had commanded it of him, to live, he thought he would have crawled on broken legs through the snow to see her will satisfied.

The fire shifted and sighed, as if caught by a breeze, a draft from a door opening.

He turned and found the Dragon Queen shadowed in his doorway. It surprised him, to realize that she was so small and slight, because her presence demanded immediate attention, filled up all space in a room. But there were moments like this, her face dappled with dancing shadows, he was reminded that Daenerys Stormborn, last scion of the House Targaryen, was only a young girl, younger than himself.

“Your Grace.” He was halfway out of his chair before she motioned him to be seated. The door closed behind her with a soft thud.

She only wore a thick robe of Targaryen red, he realized, edged in a fine white fur and with each step she took he saw a hint of bare, dainty feet beneath its hem.

Jon felt it, a stirring. The way he had in the cave, the first time he had seen her stripped of her queenly mask, revealing a young girl beneath, moved by the men that had come before her. He hadn’t thought it resurrected with him, that it had remained in that dark, quiet place while he had been yanked back into the bitter cold. His body’s ability to feel lust, to want a woman. He hadn’t, not truly, wanted anyone since Ygritte had died in his arms, but his body had had needs—simple enough, to satisfy with his hand, but still there and still insistent—but they’d been quiescent and deadened, since he’d been dragged back into the land of the living.

But, of course, it was a faithful of the flames that had pulled him back into his body and it was a woman who was fire made flesh to remind his body to want, to need.

“I’ve come to discuss your disobedience, Jon Snow.” Her voice was low, and soft. How many men had fallen in love with this voice alone? He remembered what Maester Aemon, the last of her relatives, had said to him once— _what is honor compared to a woman’s love?_ He could envision his own convictions being laid at her feet like an offering to the old gods.

“My disobedience?” his voice was low, almost unrecognizable, rasping up his throat, scrapping and raw. His fingers tightened around the arms of his chair.

The world felt fuzzy, soft around its edges, his limbs overly heavy and lethargic. His lips parted, but he could find no more words, she crossed to him and her fingers carded through the unbound curls of his hair. His eyes were fastened on the silk belt at her hip. _A wolf scenting prey._ His lips twisted.

“Yes. I told you that you did have my permission to leave and you think to go anyway.”

“I go where I please. I do not need your permission, Your Grace.” He felt a prickle at the back of his neck, a singing in his blood. The wild call his father would have named _wolfsblood_. She was a dragon queen, who answered each challenge laid out before her with fire and blood, but he was a man of the north, a wolf in crow’s clothing, and he answered challenges with teeth to throat.

Her fingers tightened in his hair, tugging until he had to arch his neck to meet her eyes. “You play a dangerous game,” she murmured. “Some would have killed you for your stubbornness.”

His fingers had lifted of their own volition. Jon found himself staring at them, toying with tail of her belt. “Is that you’ve come here to do, Your Grace. Kill me?”

Jon knew she’d kiss him. It was almost as if he’d willed it, could taste her mouth a moment before she pressed her lips on his. A hard, angry kiss, a sharp scrap of teeth on his bottom lip, her fingers so tight in his hair it caused pinpricks of pain to tingle at the back of his neck. His fingers tightened to the point of leaving his mark on her hips and he was going to drag her into his lap, devour her, he’d wanted this since the first moment he’d saw her sitting on her throne. He’d hated her then, her stubbornness and arrogance, her casual dismissal of the one thing he’d come back from the dead for. He’d imagined putting his hands on her and shaking her until she understood— _I need your dragons and your dragonglass and your army and you, listen to me! listen to me!_ —and he’d imagined dragging her to the floor and kissing her stern, unsmiling mouth. There, right before the massive throne her pureblooded ancestors had sat upon, he’d thought about taking her.

She settled into his lap of her own volition, grinding down on him. There was only his breeches and her silk between them and his cock, after months of indifference, roared to life, filling with a hot, heady rush of blood that made the room spin. He pulled at the edges of her robe and the heavy gown beneath, feeling silk strain beneath his fingers.

With a low sound Daenerys pulled away, gripped his wrists, and forced them back to the arms of his chair. He watched, half-blind, his chest heaving, as she slid to the edge of his thighs, and slowly lowered herself to her knees.

His breath caught in his throat, lodged. He’d never—

Her fingers found the knot at the top of his breeches. Tugged. “Is that you want, Jon Snow,” she murmured, her eyes flicking between violet and black, as changeling as her mood. “To see me on my knees? Do you want the Dragon Queen on her knees, her mouth on your cock?”

The heat from his cock traveled up, until he could feel it clawing at his throat. But he could not lie to her, not here, with the heat from the fire, the heat from _her_ , filling the room, filling the darkness until it was warm and inviting, a living thing they created between them.

“Yes.” She wore her silver-gold hair in a long braid down her back. Jon’s fingers slid into the strands at her temple, loosening it. “Gods, yes.”

She freed his swollen cock, gently curling her soft fingers around his heavy shaft. Her thumb swirled around slick mushroomed head, spread the beaded drops that wept from his slit. One long, slow stroke down his length and back up again, her eyes watching him, reading each tiny twitch of his face, a siren’s smile curling the corners of her mouth.

A low, hoarse cry escaped him when she laid her tongue flat against the top of his cock, wet and warm, and undulated it, still watching him, her eyes dark and shifting. His fingers curled around the sides of her face and it took very instinct not to guide her mouth where he wanted it, but she could read his desires like a map. He felt the curl her lips on his heated flesh moments before she took him into her mouth, her plump lips pouting around his weeping cockhead.

His hips jerked like someone had taken a brand to him, and she took another inch, her low moan reverberating through his turgid shaft when he hit the back of her throat. He could see her throat working rapidly, adjusting to him, trying to take him all, and it made him swell harder, until she had to grip his knees to balance herself.

Jon couldn’t help it, couldn’t stop it, his hips canted, his hands pinned her, her lips parted to accept him. The only sound between them was his harsh breath and the wet sounds of his cock moving in and out of her mouth. She couldn’t take him all, as thick and swollen as he was, her lips flared around him and glistening, her eyes glassy with arousal. One pale, slender hand curled around the heavy weight of his balls, carefully kneading and tugging, while the other disappeared beneath her robe, her knees parting, the silk sighing.

 _She’s touching herself._ He had to squeeze his eyes to stop from coming, bucking forward against her, his cock hitting the back of her throat and causing Daenerys to moan. She would be wet between her legs. _She wants me, bastard-born that I am._ She was the one kneeling before him, but it felt like she had all the power. _I’d give her anything. Anything._

“Dany,” he gasped out, a frantic warning as she licked and teased him, as her tongue moved against him, her mouth like an inferno, her body so hot. “Dany, I’m going to—”’

She pulled away, her lips loosening from his cock with a wet pop of sound and pressed her thumb to the slit at the top of his cock. He shuddered and cursed, hands gripping the arms of his chair again until the wood threatened to splinter, as his body tightened and tightened his release and her hand denied him. 

An impossibly long moment later, she pressed a kiss to the top of his shift and stood. His breath came out in harsh, shuddering gasps as she unbelted her robe and it dropped to her feet in a crimson pool of silk. Her gown was a deep violet than her eyes, hanging from her in thick folds, and when she slowly reached to undo the ties at her neck Jon couldn’t stand a moment longer of her teasing.

He yanked her roughly by her waist and she fell against him with a gasp, but offered no protest, said nothing as he gripped the collar of her gown with two hands and pulled until it ripped in two, until her pale, beautiful breasts to him. Round and high, as pale and smooth as moonlight, her nipples cherry red and peddled from the cold and her arousal. _He had to kiss them. Had to._

She arched over him when he did, laving those pert nipples with long drags of his tongue, his cock trapped between the cradle of her thighs and his stomach. “I’ve wanted this,” he breathed against her warm flesh, biting down on a nipple until she let out a strangled cry. Her Dothraki and Unsullied patrolled the keep, night and day. If they heard would they come running? Would they think she see their queen like this, her lips swollen from sucking a bastard’s cock, her body wet and willing to take him, his mouth fastened to her breast? “I’ve wanted this from the first moment I’ve seen you.”

“Wanted what, Jon Snow?”

Was it a test, he wondered. Was she testing him somehow?

“To fuck you,” he said, because it was the truth, and he wouldn’t lie to her, wouldn’t lie to himself, not in this warm, dark room where it was just the two of them. His fingers slipped down her stomach, through the wiry hairs on her sex to the button at its hood that was swollen and needing his touch.

Her hips jerked wildly against him, but he held her firm with one hand at her small of her back, pressing her down to his fingers, thumb to her clit, fingers moving through her slick folds. _So wet. So wet for him. _She wanted him. An impossible thought with irrefutable truth.__

__“Then fuck me,” she breathed against his lips. She leaned over him, one hand on his shoulder for balance, the other gripping his cock, and sunk down. He hissed through his teeth, his fingers biting into the soft swell of her hips, as she took him inside her, inch by slow inch, her breasts glistening in the firelight, swaying with each sway of her body._ _

__Mindless but for the need of her, he urged her down, further and further and further until she was fully seated, until she whined at how full she was with him, the backs of her dainty feet braced on his knees. One hand fluttered low to her stomach, her head thrown back as she drew in hard gulps of air, and Jon had to dig his heels into the ground, brace himself, against the sensation of being clasped in such tight, tight heat._ _

__He teethed her breasts again, nipping and tugging at her nipples, until they were ringed with his mark, the scrap of his beard a red imprint between the valley of her breasts. He bucked up, pressing them so close that it felt like they were just one body. She cried out against his ear, her face pressed into the sweaty tangle of his hair, rocking over him, her muscles clenched around his weight, milking him, demanding more._ _

___I should be gentle_ , he told himself. This was no way to treat a queen, gripping her by her hips, forcing her body to remain still and spread as he plowed up into her, his hips snapping, lifting them both off the chair. Dany gasped and whined and twitched above him, only able to hold on for her ride, and what a masterful rider she was— _but, of course, she mounts dragons, fires made flesh. And that’s no gentle task.__ _

__The thought drove him mad. He put his teeth to throat and bite down, felt her jolt wildly against him. He reached around, to the place where she was stretched wide around his cock, and tugged and stroked and teased those sensitive folds, grinding his thumb against her aching clit, until she clamped down hard around him, coming with a hoarse scream._ _

__He curled his arms tight around the small of her back, pressing her flush against his chest, his knees spreading until she was pinned on him, his hips lunging so relentlessly the chair creaked and groaned beneath, almost unable to bear the weight. He was so close, could feel the knife digging into his spine, a white-hot dig of pleasure, hotter than dragonflame._ _

__“Say you’re mine,” he growled at her, unsure of where this desire came from. Some deep, dark place inside him, barely touched, never acknowledged. The wolfblood in him, maybe, that demanded submission. The need to mark things as his. He was a bastard, who given up what little he had to the Night’s Watch. By rights he had nothing that could be his and yet… _if I could take this woman._ “Dany, say you’re mine.”_ _

__Daenerys clasped his face between her hands and dragged his mouth up to hers, her sweet tongue diving passed his lips, stroking him in gentle, loving caressed._ _

__“I’m yours, Jon Snow. King in the North.”_ _

__The coil of nerves snapped and he came, spilling himself inside her, filling her until he could feel his release leaking out onto his thighs._ _

__There was the only sound of their breathing, his cock softening inside her, her body weak and plaint over his. He stroked a hand down her trembling back and a peculiar urge settled over him, to bundle her tight in his arms and carry her to the bed, to make love to her long into the night and throughout the rest of the day, until the world ended and it was just the two of him. A wolf and a dragon._ _

__A new urge, sitting like honeyed wine on his lips. _Say you love you, Daenerys Targaryen.__ _

__She pulled back, her eyes wide in her pale face, her lips swollen from his kisses, from sucking his cock so deeply in her mouth. And he thought it again— _say you love me, Daenerys Targaryen.__ _

__“Jon—”_ _

__A dying log crashed in the hearth behind her, sending sparks dancing into the dark room._ _

__Jon came awake with a gasp._ _

__The room was empty save himself. No Dragon Queen in crimson silk, naked and wanting him beneath in. His breeches were still tied to his waist, embarrassingly stained and sticky from where he’d spilled in them, and the room was cold, the fire banked hours ago._ _

___A dream._ He pinched the bridge of his nose. _Only a dream. Ah. Gods. To dream about that. With her. He was the Northern fool everyone thought he was. He couldn’t even take a kind of joy in knowing that the parts of him he’d given up for dead to be working again, because if anyone had an inkling of what he’d just dreamed of doing they’d mount his head on the top spike of her throne. _Here rests the Northern bastard who dared to even think about touching a queen.___ _

___Jon got up and hobbled over to the water basin to clean himself. The water was cold, thankfully, and chilled the last of his desires—he had an ominous feeling it would take very little to rouse his cock again, just a thought of her, of her silver-gold hair flowing down her back._ _ _

___The next morning, as they set out for Eastwatch, he couldn’t even look at her. One glance at her face, strangely soft that morning, the queenly mask askew, revealing the woman beneath, and he felt hot, aching, dangerous. _There is no time for this.__ _ _

___And thank the gods for her advisors and her bloodriders and her Unsullied, his men, and Mormont who’d kissed her hands and made Jon clench his teeth until his jaw ached because if they had been alone, just them and the crash of waves and the sand, he’d done something truly worthy of losing his head. Taking a dragon queen to the sand and lifting up her skirts, showing her the other ways in which he could bend the knees._ _ _

____Do you want the Dragon Queen on her knees, her mouth on your cock?_ _ _ _

___Jon swallowed. Daenarys Tagaryen watched him expectantly. “I wish you good fortune in the wars to come,” he managed over a tongue that felt too heavy by half._ _ _

____Gods be good,_ he thought as he stepped into the cold surf, but he wasn’t sure what he was praying for, or if they even listened anymore._ _ _

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. this is technically a prequel to [this](http://archiveofourown.org/works/12005232)  
> 2\. honestly i should just make it a series  
> 3\. a series titled "a stark in the streets, a wildling in the sheets"  
> 4\. or, how jon snow got his groove back  
> 5\. seriously i am in love with the idea of fire!zombie jon snow literally being fucked back to life by bride of fire daenerys targaryen  
> 6\. severely disappointed that no one has really run with this idea  
> 7\. a waste  
> 8\. anyway was this was for day 1 of jonerys week "my king, my queen"


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